


Three Lonely Souls (REWRITE)

by nammyneutron



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Abused Harry Potter, Child Abuse, Hurt Harry Potter, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentor Severus Snape, Potions, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:56:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27635101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nammyneutron/pseuds/nammyneutron
Summary: Harry returns to Hogwarts for his fifth year with a terrible secret... His uncle raped and sexually abused him, leaving Harry a new kind of devastated. Shame sinks in even though he knows it shouldn't, rendering even the simple act of speaking so incredibly difficult sometimes. He could never tell his friends, his teachers, or Dumbledore what happened behind the doors of Number 4 Privet Drive...But to top everything off, Snape has prepared a secret-spilling potion for the start of the year.How the hell is Harry going to survive this?"...I can’t stop thinking about it, what he did to me. It’s following me everywhere I go and it feels like it’s my fault! It can’t be my fault, it can’t…”RAPE WARNING! DRARRY/FATHER FIGURE!SNAPE
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 37
Kudos: 354





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> author's note: listen,, whatever I said I was going to put in this fic, just assume I'm winging it because it's been literal years since I've touched this story and my writing interests and ships have changed. I hope that those who had issues with the story appreciate or even like the new chapter and the rest of it when I get to writing it! this isn't to say I changed it for the haters, my writing really was all over the place and I'm honestly happy with the change too!
> 
> RAPE WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER! please, please, PLEASE do not read this story if you cannot handle reading about rape and the consequences of it. I want all of you to be happy and healthy and if this story isn't it for you I understand. Stay safe and know your limits!
> 
> much love, nammy xx

Harry Potter sat in his cupboard under the stairs, tears streaming down his fever-flushed cheeks, struggling to pull himself together after another night in the Dursley home. His uncle had done it again, had beaten him until he could hardly move, but he had long since learned to suffer it in silence. His legs were bloodied up, his thighs covered in welts from the belt. His back hurt the worst though-- there were scabs reopened and new fresh wounds that he knew would get infected like the rest of them from the whip his uncle brought out with a sadistic smile. His nose was broken, and it felt like blood was oozing down his throat and choking him.

But tonight, Uncle Vernon did something he's never done before. And Merlin, it hurt, it had hurt so bad. He was so scared and felt so… wrong. It felt like all of the spiders in his cupboard were crawling on him and no matter how hard he rubbed his skin, they kept coming, like they were crawling out from under his own skin. He had endured much in his life, but not this. Hands were tight around his wrists as they held him down, bruising. Teeth clenched at the sting of his uncle’s teeth biting down at the juncture of his neck and shoulders, only barely distracting Harry from the agony of the things happening below. 

Harry could hear his heart beating like a jackhammer, thud thud thudding in his chest in terror. It felt like his body was splitting, his eyes screwed shut as he prayed for it to be over. 

He wanted his parents. He wanted Sirius. He wanted someone to stop it. 

Why hadn’t anyone come to stop it?

After it was over, his Uncle shoved him back in the dusty, spider-infested cupboard like a discarded toy.

Harry knew it was his punishment. He often didn’t understand the reasons behind the punishments the Dursley's gave him, but Harry didn’t need them. He knew what he was being punished for. It still may not be punishment enough. At least, that's what everyone, trusted and not trusted by him alike, seem to keep telling him.

If not when he was awake, then in his dreams.

Nightmares. His mother, screaming, a green light consuming his vision. Ron, unconscious, blood sluggishly leaking from a long gash on his face. Hermione, frozen, hand seemingly outstretched in a cry for help. Ginny, so pale and so fragile, dying while Riddle laughs above her. 

Harry coughed weakly, the sound wet but barely audible. 

He was so tired of it all. The thought that he would have to fight the wizarding world’s battle based on a predetermined prophecy made him want to sink into his cupboard and hope it swallowed him. There was so much anger, so much  _ fury _ at the things that he’s lost because of the Dark Lord, but with all of that fury is the numbness that has settled into the bottom of his mind, heavy and pulling him to the ground with the urge to just give up.

Harry was tired of being angry, and after a long period of four years, he was done fighting. 

Fighting had only ever gotten him beatings anyway.

Of course, no one else knew about that. He knew he was denied a life that maybe Snape expected him to have, but to anyone else, Harry Potter was living that life. 

In reality, his life was shit. Everyone he loves has either died or will probably die, and he’s the only one who can stop it. 

How is he supposed to stop Voldemort if he can’t even stop his uncle?

Harry knows, in the end, that he won’t be alone. His friends will fight with him, his friends will die with him. They will stand by him until that day.

But he knows that in some way, he still has no one. No one knew the secrets he kept.

And that was what Harry thought about every time he was touched, beaten, refused food, and stuffed back into the dark cupboard until it was time to head to King's Cross Station; how he had no one to save him.

* * *

Harry was beyond relieved to be back on the Hogwarts Express. He was in so much pain, his arse hurt, and his back stung, but he was leaving, and that's what mattered. Glamours hid the evidence of his summer, his secrets remaining what they were - secrets. 

Harry found himself not wanting to speak. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his skin felt like static electricity, making him want to cower in his tattered oversized jacket until the end of time. Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep his vow of silence when his friend joined his train car. Still, he managed the bare minimum of talking. 

“Hey, mate! I can’t believe it’s been a whole summer, it’s so good to see you again!” Ron exclaimed as he slapped Harry on the back, settling onto the seat next to Harry, shoulders bumping against the smaller Gryffindor’s. 

Harry recoiled from the contact, eyes clenching shut at the sheer amount of pain that coursed through his body from Ron’s cheerful gesture, skin buzzing like a warning where their shoulders still touched. 

Still, Ron didn’t move. 

Harry pushed through it. “Hullo, Ron,” he managed, voice croaky from disuse. 

It was enough. Ron created a conversation for himself, something about Quidditch and his unruly brothers at home, seemingly unbothered by Harry’s lack of response.

Eventually, Harry just picked at a piece of thread stringing from his brown, ratty pants, picking, picking, picking. When that thread broke he picked at the seats, just picking, picking for something to do. He stared out the window, longing for his four-poster bed, for the curtains that would shield him from all of these meaningless words filling the air and smothering him.

Ron’s voice was cut off by the sharp  _ whoosh _ of the train car door as it opened. Harry’s head whipped around, wand clenched tight in his fingers.

Malfoy stood in the doorway, a haughty sneer already twisting his features, eyes raking the two Gryffindor’s for something to taunt them with. His eyes paused on Harry’s tense form, his expression suddenly turning almost mystified. 

Harry twitched under the intense gaze, feeling himself begin to sweat. Why was Malfoy looking at him like that?

“Potter,” Malfoy spit out his name like it was a lemon on his tongue. 

“Malfoy,” Harry said quietly. He didn’t have the energy for this. He hoped Malfoy just kept this short and left the train car. He didn’t want more empty, meaningless words filling up the cabin.

Malfoy seemed to agree with Harry’s unspoken statement. “See you at school, Potter,” he said finally, flashing Harry a nasty grin as he exited the compartment and disappeared down the train corridor. 

Harry sighed in relief, sagging into the seat.

Ron sat back on the seat with a loud huff. 

Thankfully, Harry thought, he put more distance than before between Harry and himself. 

“Bloody hell, mate, I wonder what that was about! He didn’t even say anything, not really,” Ron mused. “What a prat,” he said, nose wrinkled in disgust.

Though Harry said nothing in reply, he too wondered what Malfoy’s show had been about. He was almost certain that the blonde boy had something to say, or at least had something in mind when he intruded upon their train car. All it took was one look at Harry, though, and he let it go to waste. 

And what was that look? That piercing gaze that made Harry sweat, that made him feel open and exposed and like Malfoy knew too much? Could he know? 

No.

No, he definitely couldn’t. 

Harry decided to put it out of his mind. After this summer, Malfoy was no threat to him. He was nothing in a sea of problems that Harry possessed, and he hoped that Malfoy wouldn’t aim to become something bigger or even more problematic this year. 

At the very least, Malfoy was not Vernon Dursley, and it put Harry at peace to remember that.

When they get off the train, Hermione is the first to greet them. “Hello, Harry! Hi, Ron!” She pulls them into a quick hug, Ron’s ears going red and Harry tensing up. Thankfully, she lets them go quickly, mouth going a mile a minute as she begins to tell the boys about her summer.

Ron is an active listener, but Harry couldn’t manage to think of anything past the warning bells going off in his mind, his skin burning where it was touched by his friends. Why couldn’t he just get past this? His friends have hugged him before, have bumped shoulders, had touched him with no warning. They weren’t the ones that…

He shakes his head, hand raising to massage his temples. Harry looks up suddenly. “Hey guys, I’m gonna go ahead and find a carriage.”

Hermione and Ron quickly said their goodbyes and went back to their conversation, and Harry gladly took his exit. 

He grabbed his trunk and made his way through the crowds of students, carefully avoiding shoulders and hips that threatened to bump against him on the way to the carriages. However, something stopped him. 

Harry looked in wonder at the bony magical beasts harnessed to the carriages. One of the gray, leathery creatures snorted loudly and pawed at the ground, which caused dirt and dust to fill the air. The small Gryffindor cautiously came closer, bags forgotten behind him as he walked until he was only a foot away from the animal. 

“Thestrals,” an airy voice said behind him, startling Harry nearly out of his skin. He whipped around, eyes wide as they locked on a small girl with icy blonde hair that fell in waves over her shoulders. The first thing he noted was her rather odd radish earrings, shining in the sunlight as they dangled from her ears. 

"They're rather gentle really,” she said, “Just a bit different. You can only see them if you've seen death."

Harry stiffened, memories of voices suddenly clamoring in his mind, shouting,  _ “Kill the spare!” _ Green lights echoed and ricocheted in his mind's eye, and Harry winced and tried to smother it all down until his head became quiet again. 

The girl looked at him with strangely knowing eyes. “Sorry,” she whispered. 

He looked back to the thestral and shrugged. “S’alright,” he said finally.

“You could take the first carriage if you want,” Luna offered, her voice dreamy, almost lulling Harry to sleep, “It seemed like you wanted to be alone…”

Harry rubbed his eyes slowly, exhaustion setting in. “Thanks,” he said, but he didn’t move. 

Luna reached out for Harry quickly, and he flinched violently when her fingertip brushed his arm. She quickly rescinded her hand, eyes wide as he profusely apologized, arms wrapping around his waist clearly indicating his discomfort.

“I’m sorry! Sorry, I just-” His eyes watered as he squeezed them shut. “I don’t like-”

“It’s okay!” Luna exclaimed. She looked down, eyes fixed on her shoes, and said, “I should have asked, I’m sorry.” She waited for him to calm down and slowed her breathing, louder than normal so Harry could follow her example, and he did.

In, out. In, out. In… out.

“Would you like me to walk you to the front carriage?” she asked him softly.

Out of words, Harry nodded.

Luna led him to the carriage, the silence refreshing and not as tense as Harry thought it might be. When they reached it, she let him climb in and said goodbye, waving as the thestrals pulled Harry away.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and laid his head back on the seat just as the carriage lurched forward. A quick glance behind him told him Luna had sent this one early, as the other students rushed to find a carriage.

And that's where he fell asleep, the carriage moving softly with a steady thump of the thestral’s walk lulling him to darkness after many sleepless nights.

* * *

The Feast gave Harry that familiar feeling that he comes across every school year: foreboding.

The first thing that set off alarm bells was the brightly dressed, portly woman at the High Table. She had a simpering smile that was oozing with a certain coyness; and yet, Harry could plainly see that beneath it was agitation and a dark, unnamed feeling. Her clothes were a terrible mix of pink, from her buckle shoes to her frumpy, shapeless hat, and even the hanky that she raised daintily to her mouth was pink. 

That wasn’t entirely what raised Harry’s suspicions, though.

No, it wasn’t her appearance or her fake, plastered smile, but instead, it was the shrewd stare she had fixed on Harry.

He tensed, hand closing tightly around his cup as he drank, eyes locked onto hers as the woman’s eyes narrowed, her simpering smile curving into a sharp frown. He put down his goblet, his mouth mirroring hers as that unpleasant feeling sank deeper into his gut. 

That feeling didn’t go away for the rest of the night, especially after hearing her speech. He could tell the Ministry woman would bring many hours of gloominess and uselessness to Hogwarts, and with Voldemort on the rise, Harry wasn’t sure if she was good for the students at all.

* * *

After the first day of coming back, Harry was exhausted. But he knew today would be the real challenge; a two-hour potion’s class with the Slytherins.

He had thought about the Slytherins often this last summer. Harry reconsidered his views on them and the more he thought about it the more he thought that perhaps he had been childish in thinking that every Slytherin was evil.

After all, he thought bitterly as he opened his potions textbook, not all Gryffindors are good. 

The Slytherins he knew and fought were just like him, young and impressionable. Not only that, they had dreams, hopes, and fears. They had interests and hobbies, self-deprecating thoughts, other teenage problems, and expectations to live up to.

He had thought even more, oddly enough, about Draco Malfoy. What would Harry do about him? Malfoy would undoubtedly make life harder for him, just as Harry liked to make life hard for Malfoy in the past, but where did it end? When did the cycle stop? In the grand scheme of things, should it stop?

Harry really only knew one thing: he didn’t want to fight anymore. 

His thoughts were interrupted by Snape's low baritone voice.

"The potion is called Verba Animae. Even Longbottom couldn't possibly mess this up."

Hermione raised her hand, her brow furrowed. "Uh... sir? Neville isn't here today. He's in the infirmary," she said tentatively.

Snape raised his eyebrow, eyes cold. "Exactly." 

At his cold response, Hermione’s cheeks turned several colors within seconds, hands clenched, clearly feeling foolish for having said anything.

Snape smirked, satisfaction clear in his features. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way..." 

Hermione stared furiously at her desk, not daring to look up. 

"The Verba Animae potion is very similar to Veriteserum, but rather than revealing an immediate truth to a question asked of you, it reveals  _ your  _ truth.” He grimaces. “It’s all rather artistic in ways that I do not care for, but the headmaster insisted it remain in the curriculum.”

As Snape continued to talk about the potion, Harry felt an uneasy feeling curl deep in his stomach. This specific potion could potentially reveal things that Harry thought would be better left alone. 

From the looks of some other students, they had things they’d rather keep hidden as well. 

Snape suddenly paused, and Harry’s eyes snapped back to the professor. Snape looked uncomfortable, almost, staring at the instructions on the board.

“I understand...” he said slowly, “that some of you will not like the results of this potion, and will not want them public. For this reason alone, each student will test their potion privately in my office with me. This is for a mark, so it is required that each of you do it. Anything you say shall remain in confidence unless it will bring harm to you or others.” He turned to face the students again. “This will take longer, so each of you must make an appointment with me to test the results. We will do this throughout the next two weeks.”

Snape continued on about a sign-up sheet for appointments, then eventually barked at them to get started.

Harry sighed. He turned to the page and started reading, preparing the ingredients exactly, making sure to cut the proportions evenly. After several minutes of stirring and adding ingredients, and waiting, the potion came to simmer at a nice, light blue color. With a flick of his wand the worktop became clean, and his fire out. He cast a stasis charm on the potion along with several shields, determined to have at least one potion turn out alright, even if it would probably spit out his own secrets that made him feel worse than if he were Voldemort.

Eventually, everyone had a light blue potion on their desk, capped and ready for consumption. 

Snape circled the classroom like a predator stalks their prey. "Well, well, well, Potter seems to have actually made a potion correctly.” 

Harry looked away from Snape’s cold gaze, hands clenched beneath the desk. He mentally begged Snape to go away, to leave him alone, to not bother him today. He hated feeling small under the professor’s gaze and hated feeling like the center of the class's attention.

Thankfully, Snape only glowered down at him, said nothing else, and moved on, giving his usual scathing remarks to the Gryffindors and the subtle praise to the Slytherins. He then dismissed the class.

Harry quickly made his way towards the sign-up sheet in the front of the room and scribbled his name on one of the blank spaces (September 12th, he thinks), not looking at the paper long enough to read any other names, eager to be as far away from his potion’s professor as soon as possible.

Unbeknownst to him, cool grey eyes watched him go, thoughtful and suspicious.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry earns himself detention with Umbridge, another thing to add to the list of Things That Were Stressing Him Out. Feeling fragile wasn't an option for him, so why was everything becoming so hard?
> 
> Meanwhile, Neville misses some things but learns others, and Malfoy watches in the shadows...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: blood, injury, mention of rape/aftermath trauma of rape
> 
> It took me ages to write this because I actually care about how it turns out lmaoooo. I took a minute to read the first chapter of the old version of this and the writer in me wept at how horrible it was :D
> 
> So please, enjoy! Let me know what you think of this chapter and feel free to leave suggestions on what should happen next!

Draco Malfoy didn’t know what to think of Potter’s sudden change in character. 

He had gone to Potter’s train car intending to start their yearly feud (something that entertained him endlessly), but the unexpected tension already in the tiny space changed his mind. 

Anyone with eyes could see that Potter was not doing well. He had dark circles under his eyes, his face haggard with exhaustion, and something about the way he looked at Draco with such… desperation? It was like he was begging Draco for something, or rather, for him to do nothing. 

This, however, wasn’t what gave him such a pause. 

It was Potter’s posture, how every muscle in his form was pulled taught, as if Potter wanted to promptly evacuate his own body. It was how his eyes flickered from Draco’s gaze to Weasley, or rather, where they touched. Weasley was too busy glaring at Draco to notice that Potter was strung like a live wire, and the entire thing completely baffled him.

He remembered the Golden Trio being all buddy-buddy before. They seemed thick as thieves and as close as peas in a pod. So what was wrong with Potter?

Draco’s eyes flicked back up to Potter’s, and he was once again stunned by the emotion he found there. 

So, he left him alone.

Later, he sat in his claimed spot at the Slytherin table and observed Potter again. 

Potter was sitting between Weasley and Granger, picking at his food. His shoulders were hunched, his body seemed to curl so far into itself that it looked painful. He looked so forlorn amongst the rowdy Gryffindors, but no one seemed to notice a thing. And yet, it was so clear to Draco that something was wrong with Gryffindor’s Golden Boy.

His gaze slid over to Granger, the know-it-all of the Trio. She was seemingly lecturing Finnegan, hands waving in what he knew to be wand movements. Once, in a large swooping movement, her arm grazed Potter’s. 

The reaction was immediate. Potter jumped in his seat, a hand immediately coming to rub his arm. At first, it was slow, something meant to be soothing, but eventually, his movements devolved into a harsh rubbing, as if he were scrubbing his skin of her touch. 

Perhaps the touching wasn’t because of a personal offense then, Draco decided. After all, Potter sat with them. He didn’t seem angry, and while he seemed upset, the other two didn’t seem unusually guilty. 

No, the Slytherin concluded, this was a personal issue of Potter’s. 

Then, in Potions, Potter had an interesting reaction to the description of the potion they were to make for Snape. Draco watched as he became tense, and then as he became small under Snape’s scrutiny. 

This also baffled him. Draco was long used to Potter and Snape’s standoffs, their raised hackles and the tension in the air as Snape baited Potter and as Potter took it, hook, line, and sinker. Now Snape was trying to tempt Potter into detention but for once, Potter seemed… afraid. Or at the very least, Potter was submitting to Snape’s authority, of which Draco thought he would never see the day.

But as the day went on, Draco, dare he say it, was almost concerned.

He sees Potter several times throughout the day. When they would meet, Potter’s eyes lingered on Draco, but Draco thought that when Potter stayed silent it no longer seemed like the Gryffindor was about to burst with something he wanted to say. He seemed… finished. 

Acceptance lingered like a cloud around Harry when he looked at Draco, and Draco hated it.

* * *

DADA went about the way Harry imagined it would. 

Umbridge was a new breed of ignorance, twittering on about Ministry policy and ‘theoretical magic’ as if Voldemort weren’t looming over the magical world like a swirling storm, ready to strike. 

“Your previous instruction in this subject has been…” she swallowed in disgust, “disturbingly uneven.” The woman made her way to the podium in front of the class. “But you will be pleased to know from now on, you will be following a carefully structured, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic.”

Harry’s eyebrows slowly furrowed as he read more of the text, and combined with her opening speech, a sinking feeling had begun to form in his chest yet again. He tried to ignore it, tried to convince himself that the feeling wasn’t there, but it was persistent, piercing through the mess and making him too aware of it. He brought his fingers to his temples and pressed on them hard enough to hurt in an attempt to think of literally anything else.

It didn’t work.

A few seats away, Hermione raised her hand. 

“Yes?” Umbridge called out.

Hermione looked up at her, a guarded expression on her face. “There’s nothing in the text about using defensive spells,” she said quietly.

Harry watched as Umbridge’s mouth slowly turned up at the corners in a wicked smirk at Hermione’s statement. 

“Using spells?” she asked incredulously. Umbridge let out a high-pitched laugh. “Well, I can't imagine why you would need to use spells in my classroom.”

Harry’s sinking feeling sank deeper, to the pit of his stomach, rolling around and making him nauseous. His shoulders tensed and he clenched his jaw, trying to subdue the sick that threatened to spill out onto the stone floors. His nausea slowly transformed to anger that transformed to _rage,_ a red hot feeling under his skin as Umbridge laid out the ministry agenda.

He didn’t go through his many summers for this. He didn’t endure all of those cold nights in his cupboard, all the broken bones, all of the belt whippings, the… the _touching,_ for this. He didn’t live through hunger most of his life for this. He did not fight Voldemort countless times for this. Cedric didn’t die for this. 

Suddenly, Harry’s thoughts erupted out of his mouth like hot lava, scorching and dangerous. “How can we be ready for the war if people like you are making a joke out of the most important class we have?!”

Silence descended among the class as Harry’s question lingered in the air, quickly being taken over by tension between teacher and student. 

Umbridge’s unsavory smile was long gone, an angry frown pulling at her haggard features. “There is no _war,_ ” she said with an air of finality, of challenge. “Not now or ever. The dark wizard who plagued the wizarding world is dead and he is _Not. Coming. Back._ ”

She stared at him, and Harry knew she was waiting for him to take the bait. She wanted him to say something, she was testing him. And quite honestly, he wanted nothing more than to sink into his seat and pretend he never said anything, but...

If not him, who? Who would fight to discredit her, to account for his history and the Wizarding World’s future? Hogwarts couldn’t afford to accept her lies. Not at a time like this.

So, Harry locked eyes with her, seething, slowly standing up from his seat. “He _is_ back. _Voldemort,_ ” he slowly enunciated, almost enjoying the way Umbridge flinched, “is back. I _fought_ him.” His fingers had started to tremble as he talked, from the anger or the memories, he didn’t know. “I have fought him for years and I will _keep_ fighting him until he is _fucking dead._ ” The trembling spread to his vocal cords, threatening to lock them up and never let him speak again. “He killed Cedric. He killed my parents... _I_ say when he’s dead. _Not_ the Ministry, _not_ you, _me.”_

Umbridge’s face turned an unflattering shade of red, clearly startled. She had expected him to sit silently in the face of her challenge, but now she must have realized that Harry would not be so easily discredited.

“Detention, Potter!” she shouted at him, clearly frustrated with his response.

Harry carefully sat down again, mindful of his back, which had started to ache in all of the excitement. Already, his energy was depleting and he had the unmistakable urge to curl up into a ball and cry. He’d hoped and prayed that Umbridge wouldn’t be the villain she intended to be, but the weight of another burden on Harry’s mind was making itself known, crushing his ribcage and making it hard to breathe.

Slowly, he looked to where his friends were sitting and tried to determine their reactions. 

Hermione frowned at Harry, hands twitching around her pencil as she bit her lip. Slowly, she looked away from him, appearing to disapprove of his outburst. Following her lead, Ron gave Harry one last apologetic glance before tearing his eyes from him and settling them on his desk.

He stared at them in astonishment, his heart breaking a little as they refused to meet his eyes. Harry swallowed down the lump forming in his throat and tried not to think about the panic rising in his chest. Everything was terrifying all the time, but at least he had usually had the support of his friends. 

He wasn’t sure he could honestly do anything without them.

Umbridge took a moment to compose herself as Harry sank deeper into his desk. Finally, she said, “Perhaps punishment will teach you to not spread _lies._ Come to my office tonight at eight for your detention, Mr. Potter.”

She then dismissed the class in a sickly sweet voice as if nothing had ever been wrong.

Harry gathered his books, not bothering to even look in his friends’ direction as he hastily left the room. He ducked through other students leaving their classes, rushing through the crowd as fast as he could. But as he walked through the hall, it occurred to him that he had no idea where to go.

The Gryffindor common room was out of the question, it was too crowded, and he would never get a moment of peace. Instead, he headed for the Owlery, longing for the comfort of Hedwig and the quiet. Harry hadn’t seen his owl since receiving his yearly Hogwarts letter, having sent her away from the Dursley’s the first chance he got.

Perhaps talking with her would help him sort his thoughts, or at least, quiet them.

Little did he know, a shadow accompanied him there.

* * *

It had been easy enough for Draco to shake off his bodyguards and follow Potter to the Owlery, and easier yet for him to stay quiet and listen. He watched as Potter sat on a fresh bale of hay in the corner, his snowy owl flying down to rest on a perch near him, happy hoots spilling from her beak as her wings flapped excitedly.

Potter laughed at her behavior, and Draco was oddly happy to hear it.

Alone with his owl, Potter’s posture had relaxed and he almost looked the way he had all the years before to Draco - a cheerful Gryffindor with no idea of what lay ahead of him. Just as the thought came to him, it disappeared, watching as Potter’s mouth slowly turned down at the corners into a frown. He seemingly stared at nothing for a long while before he began to speak. 

“Everything’s turning to shit, Hedwig.” Potter held his chin in his palms, eyes scrunching shut before blearily opening again. “Voldemort killed Cedric and everybody thinks it's me, Umbridge is just ridiculous, and Snape’s got us brewing a potion that could thoroughly take away the rest of my dignity.” He kicked a rock, watching as it flew a few feet.

Draco perked up at the mention of Snape’s potion as he wondered yet again what Potter was so afraid of. He had a feeling that it had something to do with the strange way the other boy was acting, but Draco wasn’t sure what that was about either. 

Potter was like a puzzle, and for some odd reason, Draco hungered to solve it.

“To top it all off, Hermione and Ron are drifting farther and farther from me!” Potter then seemed to consider his words before saying, “Well, maybe I’m drifting away from them.” He sighs. “But things feel different now. I used to feel like it was us three against the world and now I feel… disconnected. Like it’s just me. It feels a little unfixable and it’s terrifying me.”

The Gryffindor turned to face his owl, his features solemn. “I need them, Hedwig. I can’t do this on my own,” he seemingly admitted.

Draco’s heart went out to his rival. The Slytherin had no illusions as to how much Harry Potter was going to have to give up to keep all of them safe. There was no way he could get through it on his own, but it seemed his friends had deserted him.

“Nothing’s going my way, as per usual, and I have no idea what to do about it.” Potter sighed, laying back and sinking into the bale of hay, and Draco watched as his hands fiddled with his wand that he’d taken out of his pocket moments earlier.

For a while, Potter just laid there in silence, his breathing a light and rhythmic sound in the quiet owlery. Draco took a moment to listen to it, letting his breathing pattern sync with it, mutely breathing with the other boy.

Suddenly, it occurred to Draco that he should leave. That he was getting too close, feeling too much sympathy for Potter and his problems. He was there to solve the puzzle, nothing more.

Draco turned to leave when he heard it.

Weeping coming from the shadows of the owlery. 

Draco grimaced as he heard the crying all too clearly, too loudly for how quiet it was. Every gasp, every sob reminded him of what he’d learned of the other boy today and he hated it. He hated listening to Potter struggling to breathe under the weight of his life, choking on air and crying out the pain. The Slytherin’s eyes involuntarily creased in concern as his hands twitched, almost as if he were to reach out to Potter. Why did it hurt so badly, to hear him cry? Why did it make Draco feel helpless, like an anvil was sitting on his chest and preventing him from moving?

Amidst the grief, a choked whisper reached Draco’s ears. 

“I just want it all to stop, Hedwig. I can’t stop thinking about _it,_ what he did to me. It’s following me everywhere I go and it feels like it’s my fault! It can’t be my fault, it can’t…” Heaving gasps echoed in the Owlery, like Potter was sucking all of the air out of the room with every breath. “I can’t fucking _deal._ I can’t deal with Umbridge, with Voldemort, or even with Snape like this! God, I just want to be dead. I’d rather be dead than wake up again feeling like this, like he’s here with me no matter where I go.”

Draco inhaled sharply. Potter had a suicide wish? Who was the man that hurt him, and what on earth did he do to Potter to make him so traumatized? It was so strange to see him like this, so vulnerable. 

Potter cried until he fell into a fitful sleep. 

Draco winced as he listened to the other boy toss and turn, but he left anyway. He had heard all he was going to hear tonight. 

* * *

When Harry woke almost two hours later, he was soaked in sweat, his body trembled, and his breaths were shaky. Another nightmare, but this time with no recollection of what had frightened him so, the memories of the dream dark and murky. 

He let out a heavy sigh as he slowly sat up, groggily fumbling for his wand to cast a Tempus charm. 

7:22 PM. About thirty minutes before Umbridge’s dreaded detention. 

He groaned as he stood up from his spot on the hay bale, scrubbing tear stains off of his face. As he got up, his back twinged, and Harry grimaced as his hands quickly moved to gently touch the painful area in an attempt to soothe it. He straightened up then, more carefully this time, and after saying goodbye to Hedwig, he left the Owlery.

Harry looked sullen as he walked through the halls, something simmering in his thoughts as he started to remember the day’s earlier events. Specifically, he thought about Snape’s potion… and taking it in front of Snape. 

The Gryffindor honestly hadn’t the slightest idea of what his ‘soul’ had to say, but deep down Harry knew it wouldn’t be good. The odds were not in his favor, and the whole experience was likely to be humiliating. 

The more he thought about it though, the more he thought that perhaps Snape was the best person to hear it. 

Snape hated Harry with a passion, and he seemed terrible enough to leave Harry to rot with his relatives. Perhaps his secrets could die in Snape’s office, because why would Snape believe a word that came out of Harry’s mouth anyway?

He had to believe that. That Snape would dismiss it, dismiss him, and that he wouldn’t tell another soul, or Harry would honestly lose it.

He finally came to a stop in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait, thoughts dwindling to a low hum as the exhaustion set in. Harry whispered the password in the quiet hall, and the creak of the portrait opening seemed astonishingly loud as it echoed off of the stone walls. His feet dragged over the lip of the entrance, his steps silent in the common room. Near the fireplace, two girls talked quietly on the couch as Harry passed them, their giggling becoming faint as he reached the stairs to the boy’s dormitory. 

He trudged up the steps, back sore and stomach heavy with dread- for his soon detention and for what felt like every day to come after. The door to the dormitory felt heavier than usual, and Harry’s arms almost trembled under the weight. 

The first thing he realized (and quite gratefully too) is that Ron wasn’t in the dormitory. The redhead’s bed was messy and unmade and textbooks were strewn across the bedcovers, some even on the floor, but there was no sign of his friend. As Harry looked around he realized that his roommates probably hadn’t been in there for some time, and he sighed in relief. 

He wasn’t ready to face them. Harry had already gone through being deserted (the reminder of his last year making something in him ache), but this time it was different. It _felt_ different. 

Suddenly, a loud flushing sound erupted from under the restroom door. 

Harry immediately tensed, reaching for the wand in his pocket as he whirled to face the bathroom door. He hoped to Merlin that it wasn’t Ron. That would be just his luck… 

Neville burst from the bathroom, falling over his feet. “Woah!” he cried out, catching himself on the doorframe. He looked up and met Harry's eyes. “Hullo, Harry! Don’t mind me,” he said with a frown, an embarrassing shade of red spreading across his face. “I’ve been right clumsy all day!”

Harry started to relax as Neville made his way to his own bed, his hand falling to his side. He tossed his bag on the ground with a huff, scrubbing his eyes with his now free hands, desperate to feel more awake. He knew he would need the energy for Umbridge’s detention, but it just wasn’t coming to him.

“How are you doing, Harry?” Neville’s voice was soft and knowing, breaking through Harry’s tired thoughts without startling him. 

Harry stared blankly at the wall before he sat on the bed behind him, his bed, and let out a deep sigh. 

Neville laughed. “Me too.” The Gryffindor maneuvered himself so he was sitting cross-legged on his bed, back resting against his pillows as he got himself comfortable. “Want to talk about it?”

Harry peered at him through a half-lidded gaze for a long moment before speaking. “I'm having a pretty shite day,” he admitted. “It’s just one of those things where nothing goes right.” He grunts, mumbling, “I seem to have quite a lot of those, though.” He shed his robe, draping it across his bed frame as he got comfortable on the foot of his bed. “But I’ve got detention in about twenty minutes with Umbridge.”

Neville looked at him oddly. “Who?” 

Harry squinted at him. “Our new defense teacher? Were you not there? Well, she and I have… different views on Voldemort’s return. I said something stupid about it, so now I have detention,” he said glumly. “Oh, and get this,” he said sardonically, “Snape has us doing a potion called ‘Verba Animae’, and it has us spouting out whatever our souls feel like shouting into the void! Worst of all, we have to take it in front of Snape!” 

Neville swallowed, not able to stomach the thought. “S-Snape?”

Harry nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, apparently he understands _‘that some of you will not like the results of this potion, and will not want them public,’_ ” he said in his best impression of Snape’s low baritone. Then he laughed a little at the absurdity of it. “I doubt he actually cares, Dumbledore is probably the only thing stopping him from putting us on a stage.”

Neville felt at least some relief that the image Harry was painting wouldn’t happen.

“Anyway,” Harry said, voice hushed now, “I’m not really looking forward to it. It seems like it’ll be pretty humiliating…” Anxiety flooded his chest as he thought about it again. What if it told Snape about _it_? What if…

He shook himself out of it. It would be fine.

_It would be fine._

“I didn’t have a great day either,” Neville confessed, voice thick. “I was in the hospital wing all morning. I fell on the train when I was changing. Madame Pomphrey said I broke my wrist again. I had to swallow down that nasty Skele-gro.” He rolls his eyes, scoffing. “I was in the hospital wing with a broken wrist but I know Snape made fun of me anyway. That nasty git can’t say two words without insulting me.”

Harry felt a bit lost on what to say. “I’m sorry, Nev.”

Neville smiled, though to Harry, it felt a bit pasted-on. “It’s alright. By the time the skele-gro was done all the classes were over, so I went down to the greenhouses to tend to the plants. That usually makes me feel better.” If Neville thought about it too hard, he wasn’t sure it helped him at all, but he refrained from saying this to Harry.

Harry gave a half-hearted smile in response. “It doesn’t sound like either of us had a very good day.” He pulled out his wand and cast another Tempus charm, sighing when it revealed that he should leave for his detention before he was late. “Sorry, Neville, I have to go.” He gathered up his bag, throwing his robes back on haphazardly before he rushed off as fast as he could to Umbridge’s office.

She was waiting for him when he pushed the door open, sitting primly at her desk in a sea of pink. As Harry entered, she straightened up, a smirk settling on her features and giving Harry a distinct feeling of doom.

“Mr. Potter!” She stood, moving to stand behind a lone desk to the side of the room. “Sit here, please!”

Harry swallowed down the sigh that wanted to escape, knowing it would just give Umbridge another chance to claim his impertinence. He moved to the desk and sat, hairs standing up on the back of his neck as Umbridge lingered behind his chair. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

 _Please, please go away,_ he thought desperately. 

She finally moved, grabbing a quill and parchment from her desk and placing it in front of him. “You will be writing lines tonight, Mr. Potter,” she said in her simpering tone. Umbridge leaned down to face him, once again much too close for Harry’s comfort. “Write, ‘I must not tell lies’ one hundred times for me.” She smiled, coming off more sinister than friendly. “Trust me, I’ll be counting.”

Harry shrank in his seat as she went back to her desk, feeling faintly sick but didn’t argue. Only-

“Ma’am? You haven’t given me any ink.”

She didn’t look up from her papers as she said, “I’ve given you a special quill that requires no ink, Mr. Potter. Now get to it, or I will add one hundred more lines to your punishment.”

Harry blanches, looking at the quill again. It seemed like an ordinary quill. It looked the same as his own and felt the same when he held it. He twirled it between his fingers for a moment before finally bringing it down to paper. 

He got through about half of the first line before the pain started.

Harry hissed through his teeth, dropping the quill as he brought his hand into view. There it was, clear as day on the back of his hand, ‘I must not’, red and inflamed. Startled eyes looked up to the front of the room, where Umbridge had dropped the paperwork and appeared to be waiting for him to look at her. 

Her eyes lingered on the cut on his hand as the corners of her lips turned up in a smirk. “Well, Mr. Potter? Finish it.”

Any hope he had about this detention suddenly vanished.

He considered saying something, anything. There was a time where this was something outrageous that could never happen to a student. However, the chances of Umbridge getting caught were slim, especially with her influence over the school and connections in the ministry. And as Harry looked at her again he realized that she wanted him to say something. She wanted to give him one hundred more lines, hell, one thousand more lines. 

If Harry had learned anything at the Dursleys, it was when to shut up.

So he began again, tensing as the quill carved one of many lines into his skin. He made a small noise in his throat but pushed it down, unwilling to show Umbridge such a weakness. His hand started to tremble, making his letters shaky and bringing new pain as he accidentally cut more of his skin with the quill. 

Harry missed his cupboard. He missed when things were simple, when the worst thing he had felt was the sting of Vernon’s belt. He missed when he knew what to expect. Tears flooded his vision, falling silently onto the parchment. 

God, it hurt. Over and over, scratching deeper and deeper until it felt like he was carving his bones with the phrase.

The rest of his detention was a blur, lingering and lasting for hours, and by the end of it, Harry just wanted to cut off his hand. He felt his eyelids droop with exhaustion, struggling to stay awake. He felt the drain of his energy, felt his magic trying to fight the quill and keep up with the glamours that he had forgotten about. The pain of the lines started to make his head fuzzy…

“That’s enough, Mr. Potter.” Umbridge doesn’t smile this time but her eyes glint with satisfaction. “I’m sure that by now the message has sunk in.”

Harry winced as he pried his fingers from the damned quill, hand having tensed to keep from dropping it during his lines. He left it and the paper on the desk, doing his best to stand. He paused, colors swimming in his vision, dizziness threatening to overcome him. 

He pushed it away. He had to get out of here. He grabbed his bag with his uninjured hand and walked out of the classroom as steady as he could. 

Once he was in the hall and the door was shut, Harry dropped the illusion. The Gryffindor grabbed the nearest wall, his head swimming. He imagined he lost a lot of blood in those pages… Blood. Was he bleeding? He groaned as he brought his hand into view.

His hand was red and inflamed, the message inscribed on his skin pulsing, bleeding sluggishly. For a moment, Harry considered going to the hospital wing but blearily shot it down as he remembered the state of his glamours. Madame Pomphrey could see anything with them functioning so poorly, and anything she saw, Harry had no doubt, would go straight to Dumbledore. 

They couldn’t know. Not about his lashings, not about his cupboard, not about… the rest of it. He could take care of it himself. It was fine.

It was fine.

It’s 9:15 by the time Harry gets to the common room. It seems empty upon his arrival, his fellow students already in their dorms at that hour. Upon a closer look, he sees Neville reading on the couch. Harry stumbles further into the room, startling the other boy.

“Harry!” Neville rushes to him, book forgotten on the coffee table. “Mate, you’re back! I was so worried!” He reaches forward, startled when Harry violently flinches back. 

“Don’t touch me! Please, don’t- don’t touch…” Harry stuttered wildly, arms crossing in front of him, a clear warning. 

Neville hastily backed up. “Harry, it’s okay! It’s okay, what- what’s going on?” He catches sight of Harry’s mangled up hand. “Oh, God! Are you okay? Do you need the hospital wing?!” 

“No!” Harry said forcefully. “No hospitals, I don’t like ‘em.” _Please believe me, please believe me, please believe me._

“Harry,” Neville said slowly, “You need to go.” His eyes went back down to Harry’s hand. “You’re seriously hurt, and Pomphrey could help you-”

“No!” Harry repeated. “I’ll be fine,” he said shakily. “I just need to sleep.” He pushed past Neville, heading for the stairs.

“Wait!” the other boy cried. “Please wait, Harry. At least let me patch you up! It could get infected, and it must hurt terribly!”

Harry paused, shoulders tense. “Fine.” He just wanted to sleep. He was so fucking tired. He could deal with his hand tomorrow. He could deal with everything tomorrow.

When they got to the dorm room, Neville rushed to his bed, pulling out a box from underneath. Harry could hear him muttering under his breath as he sifted through what looked to be a medi-kit, pulling out a potion bottle and some gauze and tape. He gathered all of it into his arms and moved it to where Harry was sitting on the end of his own bed. He grabbed the potion bottle first. “This is dittany. My Gran knows I get hurt a lot during the school year so she sent me some stuff to get through it without going to the hospital wing every five seconds,” Neville explained as he grabbed a section of gauze and dunked it in the potion. “This should help with any scarring and relieve some of the pain. Can I…?” He motioned towards Harry’s hand. 

Harry took a deep breath. It was just Neville. Neville was safe. Neville wouldn’t hurt him. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Neville was gentle as he wrapped Harry’s hand, but Harry winced regardless. It still hurt like a bitch, though the dittany was cool and soothing on the injury. The shivers that usually accompanied contact like this were strangely absent as Neville taped the gauze in place. 

“You should tell someone,” the boy said to Harry softly.

Harry sighed. “I can’t Neville. She’s got the ministry’s permission to do whatever she wants. I just have to get through it and hope I don’t earn any more detentions…” 

“It can’t be legal, what she’s doing. This is torture, Harry!” Neville said, distressed. “You should get help. From anyone. Maybe Ron and Hermione-”

“No, Neville, you can’t tell anyone!” Harry said, panicked. _They wouldn’t want to know. They would think I deserve it, after all I said in class._ “Ron and Hermione don’t need to know,” he said in a hushed voice. The Gryffindor turned over to go to sleep, a clear message to Neville that the conversation was over.

Harry went to sleep almost immediately but Neville couldn’t. How could he sleep when his friend so clearly needed help that he would never ask for? As he laid in bed, he wondered if he should say something to someone for the other boy. Harry would be so mad at him… but the more he thought about the situation, the more he realized he needed to. 

Harry must have been so used to doing things on his own… he really would never ask for help, and Neville couldn’t let him hurt like this. Not when he knew.

But who could he ask? Harry clearly didn’t trust Hermione or Ron with the information, and Neville didn’t doubt that there was an underlying reason for it. Harry seemed particularly upset at their mentioning, and it made Neville unsure if they would do anything to help. As for the teachers, any or all of them could be under Umbridge’s thumb, whether they wanted to be or not. The headmaster himself seemed likely to believe Neville, but considering all of Harry’s adventures… Professor Dumbledore had a blind spot when it came to Harry and had the habit of encouraging dangerous situations.

Who would be unafraid of her, untouched by her influence? Who would get something done about it? 

An idea came to Neville, and he blanched.

_I must be bloody bonkers. I can’t go to him. Would he even believe me?_

Neville turned into his pillow, deciding to sleep on the idea rather than think of it in too much detail, lest he be scared off of it.

_I have to try._

_For Harry._


End file.
